dy. But this last
is the worst yet."

"What's the matter, Jim?" I said; "what last?"

"Why, haven't you heard? Well, there's just been a snow-slide on the
Chilcoot an' several hundred people buried."

I stared aghast. Living as we did in daily danger of snow-slides, this
disaster struck us with terror.

"You don't say!" said the Prodigal. "Where?"

"Oh, somewhere's near Lindeman. Hundreds of poor sinners cut off without
a chance to repent."

He was going to improve on the occasion when the Prodigal cut in.

"Poor devils! I guess we must know some of them too." He turned to me.
"I wonder if your little Polak friend's all right?"

Indeed my thoughts had just flown to Berna. Among the exigencies of the
trail (when we had to fix our minds on the trouble of the moment and
every moment had its trouble) there was little time for reflection.
Nevertheless, I had found at all times visions of her flitting before
me, thoughts of her coming to me when I least expected them. Pity,
tenderness and a good deal of anxiety were in my mind. Often I wondered
if ever I would see her again. A feeling of joy and a great longing
would sweep over me in the hope. At these words then of the Prodigal, it
seemed as if all my scattered sentiments crystallised into one, and a
vast desire that was almost pain came over me. I suppose I was silent,
grave, and it must have been some intuition of my thoughts that made the
Prodigal say to me:

"Say, old man, if you would like to take a run over the Dyea trail, I
guess I can spare you for a day or so."

"Yes, indeed, I'd like to see the trail."

"Oh, yes, we've observed your enthusiastic interest in trails. Why don't
you marry the girl? Well, cut along, old chap. Don't be gone too long."

So next morning, travelling as lightly as possible, I started for
Bennett. How good it seemed to get off unimpeded by an outfit, and I
sped past the weary mob, struggling along on the last lap of their
journey. I had been in some expectation of the trail bettering itself,
but indeed it appeared at every step to grow more hopelessly terrible.
It was knee-deep in snowy slush, and below that seemed to be literally
paved with dead horses.

I only waited long enough at Bennett to have breakfast. A pie nailed to
a tent-pole indicated a restaurant, and there, for a dollar, I had a
good meal of beans and bacon, coffee and flapjacks. It was yet early
morning when I started for Linderman.

The air was clear and col